


Big Brother ALWAYS finds out

by Herk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:30:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5736721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herk/pseuds/Herk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing bit from "His Last Vow". </p><p>I like Mary, but you really didn't think that she would get away with shooting Sherlock without a certain someone reacting.</p><p>Small appearances by Sherlock and John in chapter 1. (Not part of the Life & Love verse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Mycroft got the call from the hospital all animosity of the last couple of weeks was forgotten. He had warned Sherlock to stay away from Magnusson. And now his idiot of a brother got himself shot. It was a good thing he was still listed as the emergency contact otherwise it might have taken far longer for him to learn about this. Mycroft thanked the nurse who informed him and told her that he would be there as quickly as possible. It might have been the middle of the night but a quick text assured that his driver would wait for him once he had finished dressing.

John was already at the hospital - apparently he had been the one to find Sherlock. The good doctor could give him a rather adequate update on his brother’s status while they both waited for him to come out of surgery. During the uncomfortable hours of waiting Mycroft did his best to distract himself with work while he pointedly ignored Dr. Watson. The man had been with Sherlock, had enabled and encouraged him in his folly. In his current mood Mycroft was likely to say some pretty nasty things and the rational part of his mind warned him that that would be unwise. Most of the time John was a calming influence on his brother and Mycroft would hate to lose that asset due to an uncontrolled outburst on his part.

When Sherlock first came to his senses in a hospital bed Mycroft was there, a steady rock of certainty with his three-piece suit and his brolly. Sherlock realised that they were giving him drugs and those were obviously making him drowsy because for a moment he thought he saw an expression of concern on his brother’s face. He blinked tiredly and when he opened his eyes again he saw the familiar disappointment in his brother’s face,

“Youwererigh, ‘croft.” Sherlock’s words were so slurred that he was difficult to understand. “no shatterin’ miwwo - gun didn’ matte’.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed, “They have you on morphine, Sherlock. We will need to get you off that stuff as quickly as possible.”

“You’re no fun, ‘croft. You never are. Why get mysel shot if I don get to ‘njoy the drugs?”

Mycroft’s lip curled in distaste. “Ah, yes - quite a good question. I think we leave the answer to that until such a time when you are more coherent. As long as you are like this I think Dr. Watson will provide all the necessary intellectual stimuli you can possibly handle.”

“I heard that,” John announced as he entered the room with two cups of coffee.

“Hey John. ‘m awake.”

“Not for very long the way you look.” John’s voice betrayed warmth and affection. He sat down just as Mycroft got up. “You’re leaving.”

“I have a job to do, Dr. Watson. He has awoken. He will be fine until the next time he does something extremely stupid and suicidal, so I’ll gladly leave you to it.” Mycroft pointedly ignored the cup John offered and left briskly.

When Mycroft got another call only a few days later that Sherlock had fled the hospital, he was far from amused. When the next call came in after Sherlock had been readmitted with torn stitches and another emergency operation necessary, he was seriously pissed off.


	2. Chapter 2

Her life had fallen apart. Everything she had built for herself over the last couple of years was coming down. She loved John. She loved being Mary Watson. But now that John had learned the truth there really was no future for them. Although her heart felt like breaking, she had taken Sherlock’s offer to taker her on as a client. No matter how painful, life was always worth living and if she ever wanted to be truly free, Magnusson needed to be dealt with. In the meantime though she felt tired and listless and lost, living alone in the home she had made for herself with John, while her husband, the father of her child was living in Baker Street again.  
When Mary was woken in the middle of the night by four men dragging her out from under the cover, pulling a hood over her head and cuffing her hands behind her back, she thought for a moment that this was it. That ‘they’ had finally found her and that she was going to die, quickly if she was lucky.  
There were tiny hints that made her not lose hope entirely though. Her attackers threw her dressing gown over her shoulders and put sneakers on her feet before dragging her outside and while they were by no means gentle they were very obviously never hitting or even touching her abdomen, apparently well aware of her condition. She was manouevered into a waiting car and driven away. The driver made sure to take many turns, a lot of them probably unnecessary making it pretty much impossible for her to get any sense of where they were going. The drive lasted for about an hour (if her time sense wasn’t totally screwed by the circumstances) and during that whole time none of her attackers muttered a word. Clearly she was in the hand of professionals. Another small mercy, if they decided they wanted her dead after all, she wouldn’t suffer from some botched attempt to end her life.  
Once the car stopped Mary was dragged out. Judging by the echos around her she was in some huge kind of hall, then there were some stairs where she almost stumbled, a door and then she was sat on a not very comfortable chair. Her still cuffed hands were chained to the chair as a security measure and she heard her four captors leave and shut the door behind them. She was either alone or in the company of someone who had already waited for her. The sound of measured steps warned her just a moment before the hood was pulled of her head and a bright light shone into her face, hurting her eyes. She blinked a couple of times, watching the blurry silhouette retreat to a comfortable distance. A tall man, a suit, an umbrella in hand, she swallowed once

“Hello Mr. Holmes.”

“Hello Amanda - or do you prefer Mary?” His tone was light and conversational but she was very aware that that facade could crumble any moment.

“Amanda is dead.”

“So is Mary Morstan, that is the real Mary Morstan.” His mouth twitched into a smile for a moment as if he was told that this was humorous but didn’t actually get the punchline.

And suddenly Mary was very, very afraid.

Mycroft leaned back against the desk behind him, his hand still resting comfortably on his umbrella as he studied the woman before him. Sherlock had never feared Mycroft. No matter what transpired between them, Sherlock knew that Mycroft was his big brother and would always have his back, that Mycroft would kill seven billion other people before touching a hair on his head. John only knew the elder Holmes through Sherlock and despite his best friend’s warnings would never take Mycroft completely serious after learning what their relation was. Mary remembered John smiling when he mentioned Mycroft’s “bloody power complex” when he told her about him. She on the other hand had met people like Mycroft in her old life, even if none of them had shared the typical Holmes’ brilliance. She had even heard rumours about the British Iceman back then. Mary knew very well who she had angered.

“Interesting,” he remarked. “Your training does shine through. Although right now you must be terrified you hide it almost perfectly. The posture, the way you look at me, of course you can’t hide the slight goosebumps and the shivering.”

“If you haven’t noticed I am in my pyjamas and dressing gown, I am actually freezing Mr. Holmes.”

“No you’re not. Your breath is irregular and although I’m not feeling your pulse right now that one artery at your throat is prominent enough to see it is quite strong and quick. Also there are beads of sweat on your forehead. All signs contradicting your claim of coldness; you might run a fever, but I’m sure you wouldn’t risk the fetus’ health by exposing yourself to illnesses unnecessarily.”

It was hardly brilliant deduction but hearing him list the symptoms of her terror made her feel exposed in a way that wearing her pyjamas didn’t.

“You know of course why you are here.”

Mary swallowed again, her throat felt almost to dry to answer. After a moment she found the strength to actually answer him, keeping at least a part of her dignity. “You found out about Sherlock.”

“As I inevitably would,” his voice was cold now from barely suppressed rage.

She held her head up high to look him in the eye. “So why am I still alive?” It could hardly be the baby. Mycroft Holmes had called it a ‘fetus’ and to think he would harbour sentimental feelings for an unborn was simply ridiculous.

“My brother clearly knew who shot him. He withheld that information from me in a childish attempt to be valiant I guess. He has confronted you himself - a fact that nearly killed him again and still decided not to tell on you, so he obviously thinks you should live. I do keep my own counsel but I never outright dismiss the opinion of someone as clever as my brother. You are here tonight so I can decide whether I share my brother’s judgement of you or not.”

Mary watched Mycroft intently, he had not once used Sherlock’s name, instead referring to him as his ‘brother’ several times. She didn’t need to be a genius to see how screwed she was.

“So ‘Mary’, tell me, why should you live?”

She forced herself to stay at least somewhat calm, to give Mycroft Holmes arguments instead of emotional pleadings. “Do you know who called the ambulance?”

“Of course, we have the records of John’s call as well as yours.” 

He pushed a button on a device lying on the desk and suddenly Mary heard her own voice played back at her. She had tried to mask it, so it wouldn’t be recognizable, but it was still clearly herself, reporting the shooting in a clear and detached tone, giving out all the necessary information before hanging up.

“John sounded devastated, close to a full-fledged panic. You sound almost bored.” He watched her carefully, studying her reaction.

“I was taught to keep the panic out of my voice, it’s often integral to project confidence no matter what.”

“And you’re doing it again right now - bravo Mrs. Watson you are quite good at it.” His face changed and lost all traces of the false friendly smile. “It won’t help you with me though.”

“It might help with ‘me’ though,” Mary admitted. “I think if I sounded like a frightened mouse in front of the cat, it would make a difference to me.” She changed the subject back to her defense. “I not only called the ambulance, I made as sure as I could that the bullet wouldn’t hit anything vital. I made quite a ruckus to lure John towards Sherlock so he could stabilize him until the ambulance arrived. I did everything in my power to ensure that he would survive.”

Nothing she had said was new to Mycroft who watched her impassively, waiting if she had anything to add.

“It was an accident that he blundered in there just as I was about to take care of Magnusson.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her choice of phrase.

“I never planned on harming Sherlock - why would I? He’s John’s best friend, he was the best man at our wedding. I’ve met John when he thought Sherlock was dead. I would never put him through that hell again.”

“And still you shot him.”

Mary knew that she was running out of time.

“You first convinced the world that Sherlock was a fraud, then that he was dead, and ended up having him chase Moriarity’s men all through Europe for over two years. A time in which he could have died any moment by some criminal’s hand.” There was no reproach in her voice, just a simple statement of facts. “Sometimes dangerous things are necessary and putting someone in danger is not the same as killing them.”

Mycroft studied her for a long moment before he spoke. “I see now why Sherlock decided you should live, besides his sentimental attachment to the good doctor. Very well then,” he pulled away from the desk and started moving towards the door behind her. “You may live for now Mrs Watson and I will fortuitously forget anything I might know about a certain Amanda who disappeared five years ago.” He paused right next to her. “But you owe me, Mrs. Watson. And I intend to collect that debt.”

Only when he had left the room Mary allowed herself to breath again. She felt tears of relief streaming down her cheeks but she didn’t care. The men who came in and freed her from her chair and the cuffs didn’t matter after all.


End file.
